Eyewitness
by The Blind Assassin
Summary: Keladry Mindelan didn't ask to be the eyewitness to a murder in her apartment storage room, or to have Mr. Personality (Joren) be her personal bodyguard. But then again, Keladry Mindelan didn't ask for a lot of things...
1. Welcome to my Life

Eyewitness

****

Chapter 1- Welcome to my Life

****

Author: Minerva (The Blind Assassin)

****

~

I know, I know! I'm starting yet ANOTHER fic. Don't kill me! I'm working really hard on my other fics, but I couldn't wait to post this, because it is SO much fun to write. I am a little nervous, as it is modern day and Kel is pretty much… umm… completely OC. Heh. But even so, I hope you like this! 

~

If there's one things every woman enjoys, it's a good tale of romance. Nothing warms the heart like the story of a beautiful young woman, swept off her feet by a man too perfect for words named Damien or Sebastian or Dimitri. There's nothing like reading about how sweet, virginal Adriana or Brianna's stomach flutters with the butterflies of attraction when her man strides into the room. There's nothing more satisfying then when Mr. Right waltzes in and gives our heroine a breath-taking, nearly orgasmic smooch. Yes, those romantic tales are perfection in and of themselves.

Sadly, this is not one of them. 

Oh sure, I'm swept off my feet by a rich, gorgeous, sex god with an unusual name quite a few times throughout the course of this tale, but unfortunately, it generally involves fainting, falling off rooftops, or slipping on a glob of spinach artichoke dip. Not exactly what I would call prime romance novel material. 

But as obstinate and unexciting as my love life tends to be, it does happen to be my life, and it's all I know to write about. 

You see, most of my encounters with romance have been less than exciting. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy. He asks her on a few dates, and bang, a relationship arises. Girl ends up driving boy away with her clumsiness, insane family, and unhealthy obsession with school or job? Ok, so the last part is not so ordinary, but that's the way the story goes for me, time and time again. 

In high school, I dated a boy in the grade above me named Cleon Kennan. He was tall, red-haired, funny, played football, and introduced me to the wonderful world of backseat firsts and sloppy seconds. But, as most high school relationships go, he was out of the picture as soon as his graduation cap was off his head and soaring above him at his high school graduation. 

Then, in college, I made the mistake of dating a guy named Dom, a psychology major with a goatee who thought he was related to Jean-Paul Sartre. I used to have to drown out the sound of him quoting existentialist theory when I was trying to enjoy my post-coital breathlessness. Enough said. 

And then there's my roommate, Nealan. Neal and I were dating casually for a few months before he decided that he didn't like women. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I turned a perfectly good, sperm producing man GAY. So sue me. Don't get me wrong, Neal is a terrific roommate with cute buns and great fashion sense, but he gotten to be so flaming homosexual that he makes The Village People look straight as arrows.

Then there was Richard, who was cheating on me and then had the nerve to call me a crazy, psycho bitch after I keyed his Z3 BMW convertible. There was Daniel, who ended up dumping me after my father tried to get him to smuggle weed from Colombian drug lords in his glove compartment. And Brian and I hadn't even made it to our fourth date when my heel caught on the base of his sister's wedding dress and it unraveled until I sent her flying, half-naked, into her wedding cake. Needless to say, he never called for a fourth date.

And then there's Joren. 

I don't even know where to begin with Joren Mason. 

He first waltzed into my life in high school, when I, the perfectly naïve Catholic school girl that I was, could be charmed by anything with a penis. He went to the Jesuit boys' school down the street called Blackwell, and was every girl's dream. In tradition of the Mason men, he was blond, blue-eyed, smart, athletic, popular, and had stuck his tongue down the throats of at least half my classmates by the time we graduated. I, much to my own chagrin, had the privilege of playing tonsil hockey with Golden Boy at the impressionable age of 15 as well. 

He gave me my very first kiss in the tenth grade, just weeks before Cleon asked me out. See, in high school, I was sort of a misfit in my class. Not to say that I was a total dork or anything, but I wasn't quite the average Norwood Academy for Girls' student. Whereas most girls in my class would go the Blackwell boys' school's football games and hang out at the Country Club, I tended to spend my free time working on the stage sets or tagging along with my brothers at my Uncle Marty's garage. 

So when I did decide to go to a Blackwell football game at the end of Sophomore year, it must have been as weird as seeing Mahatma Gandhi at a NRA meeting for the rest of my class. I sat uncomfortably next to my best friend Virginia, who had dragged me there in the first place, as this annoying boy on the bleacher behind me kept pulled at the ends of my long curls. 

By the third quarter, I had had enough. "Hey, cut it out!" I snapped finally, turning around to give him a deathly glare. 

He flashed a perfect white grin at me. "Sorry." 

I rolled my eyes. _Sorry my ass. He doesn't look sorry at all._ When Blackwell made a touchdown and the entire crowd was on it's feet cheering, Virginia elbowed me in the ribs and whispered roughly in my ear. "That was Joren Mason behind you, Kel!"

"Yeah, and?"

"You don't snap at Joren Mason, ok? It's just unheard of."

"Well, he was pulling my curls!" I whined, loudly enough so that he could hear me. "Who the hell pulls a girl's hair like that?" At that point, I didn't care that he was brutally hot, I was pissed off. Virginia gave me the glare of death and shrank into her seat, hoping not to be seen. 

At the end of the game, Joren yanked at one of my curls again while everyone was walking away. I took a deep breath and turned around. "What is wrong with you?" I snapped. 

He shrugged. "I like girls with curly hair," he said, a smug smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Think it's sexy."

I could feel myself turning red, and had no idea what to say to that. _It's a perm_—it was the eighties, give me a break—_but still_. _He thinks my hair's sexy. Oh my God! He thinks my hair's sexy. He's a senior, and he thinks my hair is sexy. What should I say? He's so hot! _"Yeah?" I managed to utter. 

"Yeah," he said in a low, rough voice as he looked me squarely in the eyes. I had never flirted with a boy in my life, and certainly had never spoken to anyone as beautiful as Joren. I gulped, simply staring at him. "Sorry for pulling at them, though," he continued. "Will you let me make it up to you?" 

At the point, I would have shaved my head for him if he asked me to. "What do you mean?"

He grinned. "I mean, would you let me take you to the Diner and buy you a shake?" 

And from then on, I was putty in his young, womanizing hands. Joren bought me a shake, draped an arm over my shoulder when we sat in the bright pink booth, and let me wear his varsity letter jacket when we walked out to the parking lot. He offered to take me home and gave my first French kiss in front of the cherry blossom tree in my front lawn.

I was leaning back against his brand new 1988 Cherokee when he did the deed, launching me into the fascinating world of making out. His warm hand crawled up my thigh and under the short skirt of the school uniform I was still wearing. I had never even been kissed before, but he was so smooth that I probably would have lost my virginity then and there, in the back seat of his Jeep. But, being the clumsy idiot I was, I leaned into the handle of the passenger seat. The car alarm went off, causing us to spring apart and for Joren to drop his keys in my driveway. As Joren and I fumbled for the keys, I apologized profusely until my mother came out to see what all the ruckus was about. 

"Keladry, honey, is that you? Who's car is that going off like an ambulance! You know that Mr. Kadinsky will bite our heads off for disturbing his sleep! Keladry? What are you doing on the ground?" I could have died of embarrassment then and there, as my mother charged down the driveway in her bare feet and bright pink bathrobe.

Joren found his keys, grinned tightly and bid me a quick goodnight before driving away

I had given him my phone number, but after a few weeks without a phone call, I stopped hoping. I actually listened, though, when his name was tossed around in the hallways at school. I found out that Rachel Clark, Sarah Berry, Larissa Ottenstein, Becky Newman, Kelly Adams, and Whitney Dorrick had all slept with him, that nearly twice as many girls had been victims of his charms in other ways. 

When I started dating Cleon, a football player, my social life exploded, and I went to parties every weekend, I saw him in passing quite a lot. One night, we were all hanging out at the Diner and Cleon had gone to the restroom when Joren slid onto the stool next to me at the bar.

"You dating Kennan now, hmm?" he asked, not bothering with any sort of greeting. 

"Yeah," I replied, not looking at him. I was determined, despite his devilish good looks, to hold onto my anger. 

"Lucky him. You kiss like a pro," Joren said with a wink. "Too bad my car alarm went off, eh?"

"Whatever." I said, trying to look disinterested, though I'm sure I was blushing. 

Joren chuckled. "Don't get all worked up about it, babe. It was all just a bet anyway. You're not really my type." And with that, the son of a bitch disappeared from my sight and from my life for a good twelve years. 

Twelve years later, the only men in my life are my gay roommate and his cat, I have a dead end job, my car is shit, and I am the only unmarried Mindelan kid of all my six brothers and sisters.

But that's just me, Keladry Mindelan. Welcome to my life.


	2. Guardian Angel

Eyewitness

****

Chapter 2: Guardian Angel

****

Author: The Blind Assassin

****

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tamora Pierce and her publishers. I own nothing but the plot, and I'm making as much clear right now…so don't sue me!

~

****

Don't expect me to always be this good with updating—I just had this done before I posted that first section and decided to post it. Thanks for the reviews—they were lovely! I changed the year of Joren's car in the last chapter (sorry—missed that when I was writing). I want to mention—before I forget to—that this is very very roughly based in terms of style and a bit with characters on the Stephanie Plum books, by Janet Evanovich. Feedback is GREATLY appreciated, so do not hesitate to flame the hell out of me if it so becomes you. And don't yell at me for starting YET ANOTHER FIC. I know, I have issues with that. Ok then, till later, duckies.

~

"Keladry! If you don't get your ass out of that bed this instant, I'm going to miss my flight!" 

I groaned and rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes. I stood in the frame of my bedroom's door and watched my roommate Neal as he ran around our apartment, shoving things into the black leather tote I had bought him last Christmas. 

"Keladry!" he yelled again, not seeing me. 

"I'm ready, I'm ready!" I said, stifling a yawn. 

"Jesus, woman, I am not letting you drive me to the airport looking like that!" He said, stopping to look at me. He glared at my mismatched pajamas and bare feet with disgust. "What if someone I know sees us?"

"No one will see us, Neal," I told him sleepily. "It's too early for _normal _people to be conscious. And I'm not getting dressed, I'm simply going to get right back in bed when we return."

Neal simply clicked his tongue at me, obviously annoyed, and pointed to the bathroom. I grunted and trudged in to brush my teeth. Since Neal realized he was gay, he has been overenthusiastic about making up for the years of gayhood he had missed, and lives up to nearly every cliché ever heard of. He was practically the woman in our odd relationship, shopping for me, cooking, ordering me around. I wasn't sure what I was going to do for the next three months with him away. Knowing me, I'd probably eat TV dinners every night and have a sinkful of dishes consistently until the night before he returns. 

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and shuddered. My stick straight light brown hair was completely tangled and out of control, and I had leftovers from last night's mascara smudged around my hazel eyes. Maybe Neal was right. Maybe I _shouldn't_ be leaving the house looking like Frankenstein's evil twin.

A toothbrush, hairbrush, facewash, makeup remover, seaweed toner, moisturizer, ponytail holder and squirt of hand lotion later, I had gone from a Frankenstein to more of a subdued Ozzy Osbourne. I scowled at my reflection and gave up. Hey, Ozzy may have bitten the head off a live dove, but at least he isn't _dead_.

Right. 

Words were minimal between my roommate and I as I drove him to National Airport from our condo in Georgetown. Neal and I had been living together for about a year now, in an apartment from the 1920's that he had inherited from his grandmother that overlooked the Potomac river. I paid him some rent, though it was not nearly as much as a room in Georgetown should have cost. Neal is really too good to me. 

We reached the airport and exchanged our goodbyes. He drilled me on the responsibilities I was to take care of for him. I was to feed his cat, pay the electric bill, water bill, and phone bill, water his plants, and dust at least once a week. Among other things. I would miss Neal sorely for the next three months, and nearly cried when he flashed me a perfect grin as he went through the metal detector. 

The condo would be lonely without him, and my social life would probably dwindle to frequent dates between me, a few old chick flicks, and the couch. Neal always dragged me along with him to fancy dinners and classy cocktail parties with his friends, who are now my friends too, but without him, I probably wouldn't have the energy to go anywhere. 

I drove back home and collapsed onto the couch, too lazy to go the extra few feet to my bedroom. I'm really not a lazy person, I promise. I'm relatively neat, and I have a great work ethic when I set my mind to it. It's just when your roommate is the male version of Martha Stewart (only without the whole criminal, psycho bitch element), you eventually just have the undying urge to leave your bed unmade, let dust collect on the damn curtains, and eat lo mein straight from the carton. You know, live on the wild side for a change. 

I decided to go for a run before it got unbearable warm. It was not even June yet, but it was hot and humid in the city already. I threw on a pair of old mesh shorts, a sports bra, tank top, and my running shoes and head out for a jog by the canal. 

The idea of taking a morning jog by a canal might sound peaceful and relaxing to the outside eye, anyone who's driven on Canal road with their windows down knows better. The Canal smells like a mixture of compacted garbage and horse manure, on its _good _days. The only reason anyone ever goes to run there is because the paved pathways by the Canal are the only place in DC where you can go running without getting caught up in hectic D.C. traffic or attacked by some pervert lurking in the woods.

By the time I returned to my apartment, the sun had settled overhead and I was drenched in Eau de Canal. 

Lovely. 

My youngest brother, Conal, was sitting on the floor outside my apartment, knees bent with his back against the wall. He smiled when he saw me. 

"Hey sis," he said, standing up and dusting off the seat of his jeans. 

"Hey yourself," I replied, getting my keys out from my pocket. "What are you doing here?" I know it doesn't sound to nice, but Conal is probably my least favorite sibling. Sure, we get along, but we're not that close. He's 8 years older then me, married without children, and works for the D.C. police. He had only been to my apartment once since I moved in 2 years ago, which is why I was so surprised to find him at my doorstep.

He shrugged in response to my question. "Was in the neighborhood, and thought I'd drop by."

"Yeah, we haven't seen you at home these last few weeks." My mother has the whole family over for dinner on Sunday nights almost every week, as an effort to keep us together and what not. "What's up?"

He shrugged again as we walked into the apartment and I tossed by keys on the front table. "I've been busy on a few cases this month. Mom's about ready to kill me for bailing so much." 

I poured my self a glass of water and opened our last coke for Conal. "She'll get over it eventually," I said, leaning back against my kitchen counter as Conal looked around the apartment. 

"You do all this decorating?" he asked. 

"Neal does everything," I explained. "But he's in Montreal for a few months, so I have this place all to myself."

"Ah," Conal said emotionlessly. "Sounds like a party."

"Yeah, some party," I said dryly. "I actually have to take care of this place by myself now." Conal rolled his eyes in the typical response of an older sibling to the irresponsible younger one. "And spare me the lectures about being a spoiled brat, ok? I get enough of that from Addy."

Conal raised his hands, palms out towards me, with a look of innocence. "I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, but you gave me a look," I replied with a frown. "I hate that look." 

Conal rolled his eyes. "You really _do_ need to grow up, kiddo." 

I made a face at him and drained my glass of water. "Yeah, well you need to lose ten pounds, but you don't see me telling you to lay off the donuts, do you?"

He glared at me. "That was a low blow," he groused. "You know cops _have _to eat donuts." His cell phone rang and he looked at the screen, grimacing. "It's my boss," he said by way of explanation before he answered it. 

While he spoke to his boss in the living room, I rinsed off our glasses and put them in the dishwasher. For some reason, having Conal in my apartment made me a bit nervous, but I couldn't think why. He came into the kitchen a minute later. 

"I've got to get back to work," he said, pursing his lips in a grimace. "But I'll see you at the house this weekend." 

"Ok. Say hi to Uline for me," I said, walking him out to the door. 

"Will do." He reached out and ruffled my hair. "Take care of yourself."

I closed the door behind him and sighed. Everyone always ruffled my hair. Did it never occur to them that I wasn't five years old anymore? It's the curse of being the youngest of six, I suppose. 

Neal's cat, Shadow, brushed by my leg, meowing for food. Neal's stupid cat was always meowing for food. I had a good mind to shoot the damn thing, but Neal would kick me out for sure. I love animals, I really do, but cats get on my last nerve. I've always wanted a dog, but our superintendent would probably skin a dog alive and eat it for breakfast if he found one in the building. The closest I've gotten to a real pet are the sparrows on my balcony that I feed every morning. 

I fed the cat, took a shower and searched my dresser for something clean to put on. Nothing. Nada, zilch, zippo. I would have to actually do my laundry. 

Damn. 

I finally pulled on some sweatpants and an old t-short and tossed my wet into a banana clip. I threw my colored clothes and a gallon of Tide into a laundry basket and slipping my feet into a pair of Neal's old house slippers. 

I shuffled down three flights from our second floor apartment to the basement and shoved my laundry into the last available washing machine. Four quarters later, and I was good for a short cycle. Excellent. 

I clomped back out of the laundry room, dragging my feet in Neal's big slippers, when a short Japanese man walked past me in the opposite direction. Eitaro Nakuji. Mr. Nakuji used to live in my building with his wife before moving out just months ago. I had been good friends with his wife, Haname, so naturally, I was surprised when he didn't even acknowledge my presence, let alone say hello. 

The only other thing in the basement of the apartment building were the huge storage lockers that hardly anyone used, so I assumed that he still had something in there that needed to be moved. He turned and looked back at me quickly, as if he were checking to see if I had seen him, and it was only then that I noticed that he had a large white gauze over the place where his right ear should have been, but probably was not. 

We made eye contact for a moment, but he disappeared into the storage area without acknowledging me. I frowned, and being the stupid, curious idiot that I am, followed him into the vault with the excuse of asking after Haname. Truly, I _hadn't _seen her in ages, and wanted to return several cookbooks she had lent me before their move. 

I shuffled on down the hallway and cracked the door of the storage area open. The lights were so dim in the narrow, twisted passageways of the storage area that one really needed a flashlight to see well enough to find anything. The yellow lights made everything appear dull and dirty, and the musty smell of the place didn't help any. I'd rather leave my stuff in a coffin then put it in our storage locker. My eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, but I didn't see him anywhere. 

I heard voices around the corner in front of me, so I moved forward to see what was going on. Nakuji was talking to four men, whose backs were towards mine. Even from my viewing place just out of direct earshot, I could see that the discussion was more argumentative then friendly.

Before I knew what was happening, a gunshot resounded, and Nakuji groaned with surprise and pain before his body fell to the floor. Another two shots, and he was most definitely dead. I screamed before I knew what I was doing, and only realized my mistake when the four men turned to look at me with surprise. I was so shocked that I noticed nothing about them. Two of the men busied themselves with rolling the body into a rug, and the other two rushed towards me. 

I moved to run, but they were faster then I could ever be in my stunned state. Someone grabbed me from behind and wrapped his huge, strong arms around me so that I couldn't move. I writhed against him, kicking with every ounce of might I had. They were going to shoot me too. I was convinced that I was going to die. 

"Quit moving, lady!" My captors voice buzzed in my ear as he jerked me around and practically threw me into a half empty locker. I moved to run before he could lock me in, but he pulled out a hand gun and waved it in front of me. 

"Not a word about this to anyone. We don't want to kill you, all right?" He barked. I studied him through my blurring vision, taking in the unkempt dark hair that shaded dark eyes, the full lips that surrounded crooked teeth, and his beaked nose. 

"Please—" I squeaked in terror. I wasn't sure what I was asking for, but I was so afraid that I couldn't form any real words. He slammed the locker door shut, bolting it. He was huge and his strength and power was reflected in every movement he made. 

"Mindelan, am I right?" he asked, glaring at me. I gulped and nodded, not knowing how he knew who I was. "Listen carefully, you nosy bitch. Did you see how Nakuji had no ear? That was a result of his first warning. His second warning? Well, that's what you had the disadvantage of seeing. Don't mess with us, princess, unless you want a few warnings of your own."

I stared at him through the barred metal of the locker, my eyes filling with tears of panic. He stared back, a sadistic grin on his lips. 

"Sten, get out here!" a voice called from some sort of back exit behind us. 

"Coming!" he roared. He looked back at me, narrowing his bushy black eyebrows. "Don't forget what I said. If I so much as hear that a cop was anywhere _near_ you, your throat will be slit, hear me? Not a word out of you about any of this. If anyone finds out that he's dead, you'll be sharing his grave."

He didn't bother to wait for a reply to that before tearing around the corner. This sound of his hurried footsteps faded, followed by the faint sound of a door slamming before there was complete silence. 

Dizzy with fear, I sat down on the cold floor of the locker and leaned against someone's old suitcase. I couldn't believe that I had just been witness to a murder, and yet wasn't dead myself. I wasn't dead, was I? I looked down at my hands, which were shaking as if they had minds of their own. Adrenaline. Humph. A fat lot of good an adrenaline rush did me _now_.

I pressed them, palms flat, into my thighs and closed my eyes, focusing on steadying my breathing. I didn't want to remember what I had seen, or how my stomach had lurched with fear when I was _sure _they were going to kill me too.

So I simply stared blankly at the broken lamp that shared the locker with me until the adrenaline wore off and my eyelids drooped dangerously with exhaustion. 

I must have fallen asleep then, because the next thing I knew, I awoke with a start to a loud banging on the locker door. 

* 

My eyes adjusted again to the dim yellow light of my surroundings hit, and the realization of what had happened before I fell asleep hit me. The banging stopped.

"Keladry Mindelan?" A deep, male voice asked. I panicked, wondering who this stranger who knew my name was. I look out at him through the metal caging in front of me. I couldn't see his features very well in the dim light, but he was tall and his face had a grim look to it. 

I gulped. "You're not here to kill me, are you?" I asked stupidly. 

He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint you." He pulled a thin flashlight from the bag slung over his shoulder and passed it through the caging. "Here, hold that for me," he said. I took it from him, puzzled, and shone the light up at his face. He brought an arm up in front of his face before I could get a good look at him. 

"Who are you?" I asked. 

"Your guardian angel." He said in a dry voice. "Now shine the light on the lock so I can get you out of there."

I obeyed, watching as he pulled out a set of lock picks and began to probe the keyhole of the lock that hung at the knob. His hands were pale and slender for a man of his height and they betrayed a good deal of experience. "How did you know I was here?" I asked. 

"My employer told me where you'd be," he said shortly. Boy, this one was a talker. 

"And who's you're employer?" I prodded. He was probably one of the guys who had been in the locker area earlier, taking me to be silenced or to kidnap me so I wouldn't talk. 

"I can't tell you," he said in a low, emotionless voice. The click of the lock opening followed that comment. He pulled it out, opened the cage, and shone the light on me for a moment before turning it off. "Ok, you can come on out."

He didn't have to ask me twice. I slipped out of the locker and stood beside him as he closed it and replaced the lock. He had a familiar look about him—light hair, light eyes, and a handsome face. I knew that face. I had seen it before…somewhere. "Thanks. I don't know who you are, but—" 

"I've been hired to protect you." He said, interrupting me. "Do you have a bit of time to tell me a few things?"

"Are you a cop?"

He paused, as if he had to really think about that question. "No," he replied finally. "I work independently."

I stopped to consider this. I had two options—get gutted like a fish by that Sten character who had threatened me before, or let this guy help me. As far as I could see, the only people who would know about me being in the locker in my apartment's basement would be the people who had put me there, and it didn't give me much comfort that they had hired someone to watch over me. 

"I've got a few minutes, I guess," I said. "But not down here, this place gives me the creeps."

"Fair enough," he replied. He took off down the narrow passageway, leaving me shuffling behind him. 

"Who are you supposed to be protecting me from?" I called from a few paces behind him as we power walked out of the scary place. 

"The people who shot Nakuji and shoved you into that locker." He said in a quiet voice that only I could hear, holding the door to the staircases open for me. Right. So he knew about Nakuji. I wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a comforting thought or not.

"So you don't work for them?" I asked him. 

"No," he said, sounding bored or annoyed with me. In the light, I could see him a bit better. His hair was silvery blond, cropped above his ears and his eyes were a light, clear blue. He had a classically handsome face that I remembered, only it was older now, less cocky—almost worn out.

"You're—you're Joren! Joren Mason!" I accused, the realization hitting me all of a sudden. Great. I saw the guy who had given me my first kiss as a _bet _after 12 years, and I had to be in old sweats and my roommate's house slippers, locked in a storage unit!

His mouth twisted into a smirk. It was the first expression of emotion of any sort I had managed to get out of him. "So you _do_ remember me."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah, well, you're not easy to forget." 

That caused even more of a reaction on his part. The corners of his mouth twitched as he tried not to grin. "I remember you with curls." His voice was even and uninterested as ever, though his eyes shone with amusement. 

"And I remember _you _with a cocky grin and a varsity football jacket," I replied. 

We came to the second floor landing, and he looked at me, his eyes flashing with some sort of suppressed emotion. "Some things have changed since high school," he said.

"Evidently." I said, unlocking my door and walking in . Broken light poured through the blinds of the window, throwing diagonal lines of light over the furniture. I opened them to let the sunlight flow in unadulterated as Joren took a seat in our huge armchair and set his leather messenger bag on the floor by his feet. 

"So, let me get this straight. You've been hired by someone you can't reveal to protect me from someone _neither _of us know the identity of. And you expect me to trust you?"

He shrugged. "More or less."

I blew out a sigh. "Great." I paused, fitting the pieces together in my head. "Wait, if you don't work for the guys who shot Nakuji, how did you know that I was in the locker? And how do you know I need protection?"

Joren pursed his lips. "I can't say," he said. "But my employer has your best interests in mind, I can guarantee you that."

"And you?"

"I'm here for the money," he told me. "If there's so much as a hair out of place on your head, I don't get paid. It's as simple as that." So, the playboy meant business. Fair enough.

"I'm going to go to the police." I said. "Those guys took Nakuji's body, and he's got a family who will be worried sick about him. Someone has to do something about it."

"Don't be stupid," he snapped. "If you go to the police, these guys will kill you before you can even open your mouth. Just tell me what you saw, and keep a low profile about the whole thing."

Yikes. Someone must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. 

"All right," I began. "Well, I went into the basement after seeing Eitaro go in there. I wanted to ask him for his new phone number so I could return some cookbooks to his wife. There were four guys, as far as I could see. They were arguing with him--"

"Arguing about what?" Joren interrupted. 

I shook my head. "I didn't hear them. I wasn't close enough to listen to what they were saying, but I could tell that they were all upset."

"Right. Go on."

"Anyway, before I knew what was happening, they shot him. Once, right in the chest, and then twice more when he was down." I gulped, remembering. "I was so shocked that I screamed without realizing it. I turned to run, but this guy, they called him Sten, he grabbed me and shoved me in the locker. He waved a gun at me and warned me not to tell the police anything. He said he'd kill me if I did." 

"And that's it?"

I nodded. "Yeah. They were in a hurry to get the body out of there."

He paused to consider this for a moment, and then stood. "Right then," he said. "I'm going to put a new alarm system in here. How many windows do you have in this apartment?"

"Two in each bedroom, the one in here, and then the balcony doors," I responded, remaining seated. 

"You live alone?" He asked, pulling a notebook out of the black leather bag.

"My roommate's away for the next few months," I replied as he wrote down the information about the windows. 

"Which one's her room?" he asked, walking over towards Neal's bedroom. 

"He stays in that bedroom over there," I said, pointing to Neal's door. "Mine's on the other side."

He raised a curious eyebrow at me. "He?" 

"Yes, _he_. This is his condo, actually. I pay rent for the bedroom."

If he thought anything of that, he didn't say as much. Part of me hoped he had deduced that Neal was my boyfriend, and didn't think of me as the single, pathetic hag that I was. Another part of me wanted to tell him that Neal was gay, so that he knew I was available. But the latter was only a very small part. Joren proved to be more firghtening then he was attractive at that point. 

He walked over to the large window in the sitting area and ran his hands over the edging. He knocked on the glass, and then wrote something down. "Keep your blinds drawn at all times." He told me briefly, and then opened the door to my bedroom without even asking. 

I kicked myself mentally for not tidying up before I went to do my laundry, and hoped there wasn't any underwear on the floor or anything. As if I hadn't been embarrassed enough for one day. He returned a moment later. "You have a cat?" he asked, wrinkling his nose ever so slightly in disgust. Sure enough, the evil cat slinked past Joren's leather shoes and settled himself gracefully on the carpet. 

"It's my roommate's," I told him. 

"I hate cats," he muttered, striding over to Neal's room. I frowned at his retreating figure, wondering if he was always like this. 

Mr. Personality finished tapping on the windows and counting things up, and sat back down in the armchair. I thought about offering him a drink, but didn't know if we even _had _anything besides water in the house. If Neal were there, he would have had some exotic iced tea or mixed drink prepared in minutes. But I was no Neal. So, I ended up just sitting awkwardly across from Joren as he furiously scribbled things in his notebook.

He ripped a page out and set it down on the coffee table in front of him before standing and throwing his bag over his shoulder. "My cell phone number," he said by way of explanation. "Call me if anything happens. I'll be back around six to install the alarms."

Joren let himself out without so much as a good bye. No 'nice seeing you again'. No 'take care of yourself'. Nothing. He was probably one of the most unfriendly, presumptuous people I had ever met, second only to that guy who threatened to slit my throat earlier. He had somehow lost the natural charisma and mischievousness he had as a teenager, which left him simply cold and haughty. He had seemed disinterested and obviously looked down on me. That observation really only left me with one burning question…

Do I honestly look _that _bad in sweatpants? 

* 


End file.
